


Retraining

by hafren



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-26
Updated: 2009-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafren/pseuds/hafren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, spinning off "Orbit". Avon has to learn new skills</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retraining

Chained in the holding cell, Avon cursed the single-mindedness that had made him opt for such a specialised training. True, it had made him the leading computer expert of his generation, but if he'd only done the odd course in people skills, he wouldn't now be waiting to be taken to the auction block on Domo. Again....

The things he'd done wrong - he could see them now. Leaping at Orac's suggestion to sacrifice the seventy-three kilos that just happened to constitute Vila without even thinking about making the wretched box earn its keep by coming up with an alternative. Worse, mocking Vila about it afterwards. He winced; he had meant the jibe for himself as much as Vila, angry with his own stupidity throughout the affair. But he should have apologised then and there, not just thought about doing it the next day. Because sometimes there isn't a next day.

He had the vaguest memories of what had happened in the night. Waking up to the stab of a needle, seeing the faces around him. Soolin's, remote and seemingly indifferent, Dayna's with a trace of regret, Tarrant's determined, Vila's sad. And something else in all of them.

"Is this revenge?" he asked, hearing his voice slur with whatever drug they'd given him, "are you going to space me?"

Vila shook his head. "I wouldn't do that to anyone."

"We can't trust you any more," Tarrant said. " We won't kill you, Avon, but we can't risk you staying."

"Then let me go. I will leave at the nearest habitable planet." Dayna seemed about to speak, and he guessed she had proposed the same thing. But Tarrant cut in. "We can't risk that either. You'd try to get Orac and the ship back. It has to be this way." The others nodded. Just before he slipped into unconsciousness he realised what was in all their faces, and thought "I never knew they were so afraid of me".

 

"Next lot", a rough voice shouted from somewhere outside. The cell door opened and the gaoler came in. He unlocked Avon's chain from the wall and jerked hard on it. "Up and out, you."

On the block, he stared out at the far distance, beyond the circle of traders, trying to blank them.

"Well now." The auctioneer had the frank, open face of a born con man. "I won't mislead you, ladies and gents, as you can see by the chain this is a potential escaper. Needs taming, but worth the trouble, wouldn't you say?" He might as well have added "nudge, nudge, wink, wink," and the audience guffawed appreciatively. Apart from the chain, and the collar it was attached to, Avon was wearing only the silk robe he'd gone to sleep in. He listened to the bids, trying to guess what sort of people those voices belonged to; not for anything would he look at them. At least none of the voices was Servalan. Unless she was bidding by proxy... he went cold at the thought. Colder. The robe wasn't much protection, and he had to force himself not to shiver.

"Eight hundred vems" a trader said, and the random thought went through his head that the bidding wasn't going quite as fast as last time. Maybe the goods had depreciated... "Eight-fifty." He wondered if they'd make a thousand.

"Nine hundred," and he broke his resolve, his gaze snapping back to the crowd in shock. He would have known that voice anywhere. He's alive, he thought, and realised that he had never believed otherwise.

It was the final bid; he was moved off the block while money changed hands and papers were signed, and he noticed none of it. His gaze was locked to the ruined face, one eye half-closed, non-functional at a guess, and a long scar running from it. So much older, harder.

"Got your own restraints, sir? I wouldn't advise doing without, not with this one. I could throw in the collar and chain for another twenty."

"No, that won't be necessary". The slight rumble in the voice was almost the only thing that hadn't changed. "But put this on him."

"Very wise, sir." It was a heavy, studded belt, worn around the hips; he might have liked it, but for the dog-lead attached to it, and the cuffs at the sides for his wrists. He felt helpless with his hands anchored to his sides and nearly had a moment of panic before reminding himself that it was all show. He realised he should keep his eyes away from Blake's face in case his recognition showed: if the merchants suspected this was anything other than the normal sort of transaction, they could well raise the price. He lowered his gaze; it annoyed his pride, but he could act the slave for a few moments.

"Right. This way." Blake gave the lead a slight tug and moved off. Avon followed suit, walking alongside, but at once Blake stopped and gave him a hard look. He got the point and fell a few steps behind, keeping up the act. His mind was still racing: so many questions. How did you lose the eye, how did you know I was here, where's your new base, did Servalan really watch what she thought was your funeral? He kept quiet, with a massive effort, until they were out of earshot, then burst out, "Where the hell have you been all this time?"

He'd surprised and embarrassed himself, both with the question and the injured tone, for all the world as if Blake had spent too long down at the pub. Maybe Blake had the same thought, for an amused smile played at the corners of his mouth. But he gave no reply. Avon walked on, his irritation rising, then snapped, "Where are we going?" Again there was no answer.

"Blake! Have you gone deaf? I asked where we were going."

"Try asking civilly," Blake suggested, and Avon retreated into a furious silence. Before long, in any case, he had the answer to his question: the traders' spaceport of Domo, little more than a windswept parking lot. A few other traders were there, loading up their newly acquired property. None of it so heavily restrained, Avon noted, and wasn't sure whether to feel annoyed or complimented. What he did feel was bruised; the heavy belt, with only thin silk for a barrier, was lacerating his skin. His bare feet didn't enjoy the gravel much, either.

Blake spoke into a communicator; a door opened in the craft opposite and steps were lowered. He motioned Avon up them. Avon managed a couple of steps and hesitated: with his hands bound he was unbalanced, unsure of his footing. He felt Blake's hand, no longer holding the lead, on his shoulder, supporting and guiding him, and automatically twitched aside in irritation. At once the hand fell away. "Fine," Blake's voice behind him said equably, and he was left to negotiate the rest of the steps without help. He made it, very insecurely, but stumbled at the top and more or less fell into the ship.

It seemed the door had been operated remotely from the flight deck, for when Blake had secured it behind them, he spoke into the communicator again. "All right, we can go now."

Avon, still on the floor, glanced around. What they were in, though not the equal of _Liberator_ \- nothing ever had been, he reflected ruefully - was a cut above _Scorpio_. They seemed to be in passenger quarters and no-one else was there, only Blake, now sitting on a couch, looking down at him.

Avon opened his mouth, and paused, as he realised that the annoyance he'd been about to vent in sarcasm had not actually done him much good up to now. With an effort, he controlled it enough to speak in a normal, conversational tone. "I am glad you happened to be on Domo."

Blake smiled, all over his face this time, and Avon noticed that it reached even the dead-looking eye. Not totally non-functional, then... He couldn't quite account for the relief that gave him. There were a great many questions he wanted to ask, but none as urgent as the weight of the belt cutting into him. He struggled to rise, ignoring Blake's outstretched hand, and went over to the couch. "Do you think you could get this thing off me now?"

Blake motioned him to sit down. He unclipped the lead, fitted a key to the left-hand cuff, then paused, as if thinking about it. "What's the problem?" Avon asked in alarm; it would be just like Blake not to have the right key.

Blake did not reply at once; then he said matter-of-factly "Only that I know how you came to be on Domo."

For once, Avon was deprived of speech. He had assumed he knew why Blake was on Domo: to free slaves, obviously; it was the sort of harebrained quixotic thing he would do, and by luck he'd been there on the right day. But this.... the implications crowded into his head like white noise, making it hard to think straight. He felt slightly sick.

"If you knew that," he said with some difficulty, "you must have been in touch with someone aboard the ship." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Orac. I gave Orac a standing order to keep trying to locate you. Why didn't it tell me it had done so?"

Blake shrugged. "Orac does tend to do just what he's told. Did you say you wanted informing?

"Even Orac should have been able to work that one out. And you certainly should. Why didn't you get in touch with me? I have been to half the known planets searching for you."

"And did you actually want to find me?"

Avon's control snapped again. "No, of course not; I just took a fancy to see the galaxy."

"Considering the terms we parted on," Blake said quietly, "it's a reasonable question."

Avon took a deep breath, conceding the logic. "Perhaps I did not at first. But lately... yes."

Blake grinned. "When you discovered leading a crew of malcontents wasn't as easy as you thought?"

The tone was teasing rather than accusatory, but it touched the rawest spot in him. "You can be sure I was no worse at it than you were. That would, after all, be remarkably difficult."

The scarred face went cold. "Well, we both managed to kill someone by incompetence, I'll give you Cally for Gan." Avon winced. "But I believe you have the edge on me over Vila. I don't recall ever actually trying to kill one of my crew."

Avon fell silent. Blake gestured at the wrist cuffs on the belt. "Those are detachable. Your choice. If I take the belt off altogether, I'll have to use them to cuff you to something else. Or I free your left arm, leave your gun hand secured, and you can still walk about."

"If you trust me so little, why did you come for me?" Avon couldn't, in conscience, be aggrieved by Blake's mistrust; after Malodaar there was really no reason anyone should trust him. But he felt it like a dull, dragging ache.

"Oh, I like a challenge. Well, which is it to be?"

Avon hesitated. "I would rather walk around. But this" - he gestured at the belt - "is remarkably uncomfortable. Had I known, I would have worn something more substantial."

Blake grinned at the sardonic tone. "I expect I can do something about that." He jumped up, pulling Avon to his feet, and led him over to a metal pillar. With surprising speed and dexterity - Avon did wonder if he'd learned quicker reactions from whatever mistake had caused the scar - he freed the cuffs from the belt and re-cuffed Avon's hands around the pillar. "Just while I sort things."

The tone was reassuring, and the feel of the heavy belt being removed a relief. The sound of a knife cutting through his robe was anything but. The thin silk fell away. "What," Avon asked with barely suppressed fury, "do you think you are doing?"

"Well, I couldn't take it off, could I, not with you cuffed? Be reasonable." He went to rummage in a locker. The cabin felt warm, but Avon was shivering with the vulnerability and embarrassment of his position. Blake came back with an armful of clothes. "I'm not sure how well they'll fit, but at least they'll protect you from the belt. Oh my, it really has chafed you, hasn't it?" He touched the reddened area gently, and Avon flinched. Blake went for another rummage, in a drawer this time. Avon felt something cold touch his hip and jerked violently away.

"Relax. It's cream, that's all. You know, one reason nobody trusts you is that you don't trust anyone else." Blake's big hands, one each side of him, held him still and stroked the cream into the angry weals. Avon's whole body tensed.

"Yes," Blake's voice behind him said, "you're completely defenceless. You are also completely safe. If you don't know that by now, then you haven't been paying attention." He touched Avon's foot. "Lift. That's right. Now the other one." Avon complied, if only because he was desperate to be clothed again. Blake had brought a pair of heavy-duty work trousers, devoid of style but the thick material did its job; when the belt was fastened round him again, it no longer hurt. Interestingly they did fit, more or less, whoever was piloting must be smaller than Blake.

Blake undid the cuffs from each other, guided Avon's right arm into the sleeve of a shirt and reattached the cuff to the belt. Then he took the left-hand cuff off altogether. As soon as he could, Avon moved away and tried to get his left arm into its shirt-sleeve, with total lack of success. Blake watched him for a few moments before asking "Shall I help you?"

Avon nodded, and Blake fitted his arm into the sleeve. Avon waited expectantly while nothing else happened, then asked "What about the buttons?"

"The meanest service is repaid with thanks," Blake reminded him. Avon was furious enough to manage the buttons one-handed after that, in an icy silence. He looked around the cabin. There was little to see, other than a door. "Is that the flight deck?" he asked, moving towards it.

"You can walk anywhere in here," Blake said, "but not through any doors, not unsupervised. You can meet the crew, though."

He spoke into the communicator. "Deva? Put her on auto for a bit and come through."

The man who came through the door was sandy-haired, with a preoccupied look. He sat down on the couch beside Blake.

"Cheer up," Blake teased, "it might never happen". It was a thing he'd said to Avon now and then; Avon had always found it intensely annoying. It felt odd to hear him say it to someone else.

"It certainly will, if you keep taking me away from my proper work like this. I should have been sorting out that database."

"Deva's my computer expert," Blake said over his shoulder, "come and meet him." The man's eyes lit up. "You're Avon? I've heard about you. It'll be good to have someone else to help with the systems."

"Thank you," Avon said frostily, "but I am not in the market for a job." He turned to Blake. "I take it we are heading for your base, wherever that is?" Blake nodded. "Good. I will leave there. Blake, why are you looking so puzzled? Did you seriously think I was itching to rejoin your half-baked revolution?"

"No. I was just curious as to where you were going to lay hands on nine hundred vems."

Avon stood rooted. "What?"

"It's a considerable investment," Blake said mildly, "did you think I was just going to let it walk off into the sunset?"

"No," Avon almost whispered, "no, I don't believe this. You could not take that transaction seriously; you could not decide to be a slave-owner... it isn't in you. You could never reconcile it with your precious principles."

"I couldn't have, once," Blake agreed, "but I get less dogmatic with age. I don't think right and wrong are so independent of circumstance any more."

"You are going to keep me against my will? What makes you think I'll work for you? That you can break me, when no-one else has?"

"I don't want to break you. I need you to work for me, and I think - I hope - I can persuade you to want to. And I won't let you go wandering off on your own, not in your state."

"Who are you to decide that?" Avon was almost spitting with fury. Blake stood up, took his shoulders and locked eyes with him. "Avon," he said, "you were thrown off your ship because you had become neither safe nor fit to live with. Do you really want things to go on like that?"

The retorts that welled up in Avon ranged from acerbic to unforgivable. But none of them reached his lips, because the word that got there before all of them, and which he only just managed to bite back, was "No".

He stayed silent. Possibly there was some tremor in his shoulders, because Blake said, quite kindly, "Of course, you didn't sleep much last night. Try and get some now."

The bed in the small cubicle was comfortable enough, but sleeping with the heavy belt, and one hand still shackled to it, was not. "Sorry," Blake said, looking as if he actually was, "I can't take it off yet. Sleep well."

He didn't.

***

 

Even with aircon, it could get uncomfortably warm in the silo that was Blake's base. Avon paused and ran a hand over his brow. Deva glanced across from his console.

"Yes," he said, "that's another thing I don't like about this place. You getting anywhere with that program?"

"I think so." Avon beckoned him. "What I think we need to do-" With their heads bent over the screen, they discussed the problem in what, to anyone passing, would have been almost, but not quite, completely unlike English.

Avon was no longer restrained. There was no point - no way out of the silo, except past guards and security devices. The room where he slept, though, had a door that self-locked behind him, and it didn't reopen until morning. Next night, he'd tried jamming it open, but it was clearly controlled from elsewhere, it emitted a low-pitched, infuriating buzz until he got up and closed it.

Nobody was actually forcing him to work either, but after two days' sulking he had been going mad with boredom. The companionship was welcome, too. The other base personnel were civil but distant, wary of him. Deva seemed not to be, possibly because he had other things to worry about.

"How is it going?" Blake perched on the edge of the desk and leaned a hand on Deva's shoulder.

"All right," Deva said, "we're getting there".

"What are you doing exactly?"

"Do you want the short answer," Avon asked, " which is 'you wouldn't understand?', or the long one, which comes to the same thing but wastes more time?"

Blake grinned. "All right, I won't interrupt. I'm off out again anyway."

"I wish you wouldn't," Deva said unhappily. "I really don't think it's a good idea."

"You worry too much. I'll be fine." Blake's voice was warm and affectionate. Whenever he heard that tone, Avon felt a vague sense of loss.

After Blake had gone, Deva's unease was obvious, even to someone whose speciality wasn't people. It was also beginning to arouse Avon's curiosity.

"Why are you so worried about him?" he asked. "What does he do on these trips out?"

Deva sighed. "He's recruiting likely people. He pretends to be a bounty hunter bringing them in for the law; then he tells them the truth when he's sounded them out."

"That's madness." Avon was aghast. "He'll get himself shot by someone who believes his cover. Or his method will become known and used to set him up."

"I know. I've told him often enough, but he never listens to me. He might to you, though."

"That seems improbable," Avon's tone was bitter, "given that he hardly looks at or speaks to me."

"Well, you don't give him much incentive, do you? You don't notice much, either. He pays far more attention to you than he ever would to me; you just don't go about it the right way."

"Oh, indeed. And what exactly am I doing wrong, Dr Freud?"

"That, for a start. All the snide answers. You could try not fighting him about things that don't matter; then he might listen to you about things that do. As it is, he just puts it down to permanent sarkiness." A look of pain crossed his face and he went back to his own workstation.

Avon watched Deva, pressing his fingers to his temples, for a while, then fished some headache pills out of his desk and went over, "Try these."

Deva glanced up. "Thanks." The look of surprise in his face was like a lance to Avon; was common kindness really so unexpected from him? He spent the rest of the afternoon getting precious little done, his thoughts in turmoil.

After dinner, he asked Blake about his recruitment activities.

"It's going all right. I've brought quite a few in lately."

"And one of them will be the Federation's man soon, if you aren't careful. It's a stupid tactic."

Blake's brows came together in a way Avon knew of old; it meant he'd been having misgivings himself but was too stubborn to admit them. "Yes, well I'd be surprised if you thought anything else. Whatever I say, or do, or think of doing, you always cross it." He stumped off.

"Oh, well done," said Deva. "That helped."

"It was unfair." Avon was shaking slightly. "Whatever I thought or said, I always supported him in action, and he never trusted me to, any more than he does now."

Deva raised an eyebrow. "For someone who doesn't trust you, he leaves a lot of weapons around in reach. There are guns all over this base; you could have taken him out a dozen times."

"The door of my room is locked at night."

"Have you tried it lately? No, I thought not. It happened once, so it'll be the same always?" He swallowed another couple of pills. "I'm off to bed."

In his room, Avon tried to sleep and failed. Eventually he got up and tried the door. It opened. He wondered how long this had been the case, and briefly attempted to feel angry with Blake for playing mind games with him.

It happened once, so it'll be the same always. Like people betraying you. It happened again and again, and when it had happened enough you taught yourself to expect it, so as not to be disappointed. You got your betrayal in first, because if you didn't, they would.

That was how it had been on the shuttle. In those few seconds after Orac had made its obscene proposal, the thought had shot through his mind: you have to do this, or he will. He leaned his head on the wall, feeling suddenly sick, because he knew now that it wasn't true: Vila would never have done that. Maybe he'd have refrained less out of altruism than timidity, but the reason didn't really matter.

He walked down the corridor, lost in thought, until he came to an open door. He glanced in. Blake slept with the door unlocked, just as he had on the Liberator... It was true, as Deva said; it would have been child's play to take him out.

You trust once too often, you're dead. Or you get your retaliation in first and turn into someone - what had Blake's phrase been? - neither safe nor fit to live with. He smiled wryly: as usual, it seemed, there were no right answers. Though, looking down at the sleeper, Avon knew which way he would choose.

Blake was sleeping with one arm flung out, in danger of overturning the glass of water beside him. Avon moved it out of harm's way. He picked up the various articles of clothing Blake had left about the floor, folded them and put them on a chair.

Then he went back to his room and slept as soundly as Blake.

 

At breakfast, Deva still looked grey.

"Head still aching?"

Deva looked up and smiled at the civility. "No, it's gone, thanks. I just didn't sleep very well." He pointed at the vidscreen overhead, giving details of the latest anti-Federation revolt. "Wonder how long that'll last."

"Not long, I suspect; it all sounds very spur-of-the-moment. No real forward planning." Deva nodded heavily and picked at some food.

Blake, when he arrived, obviously had slept well. Avon had a very sketchy knowledge of children's stories, having seldom paid them any attention, but he retained a hazy memory of some creature that bounced everywhere.

"Morning, all." Blake sat down, stretched luxuriously and upset the pepper. "I feel marvellous. I bet it's a lovely day outside."

Avon thought about questioning the logic, then realised he didn't actually want to. Looking at the lit face, he felt it kindle warmth in his own mood and knew what he had been putting up defences against. That anyone could reach me. Do that to me. "Perhaps it is", he said. "I'm glad you feel well."

Blake glanced sharply at him. Then he said guardedly, like someone who expects an argument, "I've been thinking. Indoors like this, we don't get enough exercise. We should really do some callisthenics." He eyed Avon sideways, awaiting the explosion.

It was a reasonable calculation, Avon's views on any form of organised group activity being what they were. It did cost him something to bite his lip and reply, "It's a point of view, certainly. We should stay fit."

Avon wouldn't have believed such a marred, one-eyed face could reflect such a gamut of emotions: puzzlement, suspicion, hope... The last expression in the one keen eye was definitely mischief. It positively danced as he gestured at the vidscreen. "Great news, eh?"

Avon picked up, for once, on the important thing: the glint in the eye. The truth doesn't matter. He knows it as well as I do. He just wishes it were otherwise, and he wants me to share that. I can say this, because it doesn't matter and we both know it.

He smiled. "Just as you say, Blake." The beam in the eye spread all over the face. Blake finished eating, at a rate that should have guaranteed indigestion, and made to go out. Avon cleared his throat.

"With respect, I still believe Deva is right about your recruitment campaign. I think you should reconsider both that and the use of this base. I hear the planet is negotiating with the Federation." The sun can be the moon if it makes you happy, he added in his heart, but I will still tell you what you really need to hear.

"Mm." Blake looked from one to the other. "If two such gifted... and trusted... advisers say the same, I'd be a fool to ignore it. I've had people out looking for a new base. As to the recruitment, give me a good alternative."

Deva looked ten years younger; Avon knew he had a sheaf of plans ready. He had a proposition himself, but suddenly knew it was going to cost him a lot to make. He swallowed.

"Since you are in contact, it would make sense to get the crew of _Scorpio_ here; they could be useful to you. But I doubt they would come where I am. I - I will leave, if I can be of more use to you that way."

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary." Blake shifted a bit, as he used to do in the old days when admitting he hadn't quite told all he knew. "I think my contact on _Scorpio_ would be very happy if the invitation came from you." He surveyed Avon's bafflement a moment and took pity. "It wasn't Orac. Well, only at first. My last contact was Vila, the night... well, that night. Seems he had the idea of simply asking Orac where I was."

Avon was too stricken with embarrassment to look up.

"He told me where you'd be," Blake went on gently, "and asked me if I could get his old mate back for him, the way he used to be. I could hardly refuse, given that it was pretty much my fault the old mate had ever gone missing." He held up a hand to forestall Avon's protest. "You get it wrong sometimes; I do; I expect we'll keep on buggering things up, but at least we'll do it as a team. Come on, let's call _Scorpio_ together."


End file.
